Witness
by la france avant de le pantalon
Summary: The events of the June Rebellion as seen by a little girl looking out her window. Inspired by the brief shot of the closing windows during the final battle scene in the 2012 movie. OC in the prologue. Les Amis to come in following chapters.
1. Prologue

I was ten years old in 1832. My hair was braided with flowers in the summertime, and the Place Saint-Michel was my world. We lived in modest rooms above my father's shop: Papa, Maman, my little brother, and me.

I didn't understand much that happened the year the barricades rose in a night and fell at dawn. They told me I would learn when I got older. I think I understand less now than ever. But all I knew in those balmy nights at the beginning of June was that something was coming, and it was coming from the Café Musain.

As a child, I was allowed to run and play in the bustling streets with the other children, allowed to get smudges on my cheeks and stains on my dresses without Maman scolding too much, and allowed to mill around from the flower vendors to the sweet shops, but the Musain was always forbidden. Papa said I had no business there, that it was for the grown-ups. Maman simply shook her head whenever the establishment was mentioned, though it could hardly be avoided since we lived so very close. Many a night passed when I would fall asleep to the raucous laughter and drunken singing of the students in the upper floor of the café.

At ten, I couldn't understand how they seemed so angry and so happy all at once. But I heard their shouts in the street, calling for a bright new world, and when the time came, the shouts turned to gunfire, and the gunfire turned to cannons. The cannons turned to silence before too long, and the streets ran red with blood. And after they had all gone, I was there to clean it up. And I will never understand.


	2. Chapter 1

I met Monsieur Prouvaire one morning in March, when the lilies were just beginning to bloom. I had been feeling poorly, and it was the first day Maman had allowed me outside in a week, despite my protestations. The sunshine blinded me as I stepped out the back door of Papa's shop, but it warmed the skin that had grown pale and cold during my illness.

And lit like the warmth of the sun was the smile of a young man gazing at a flower seller's cart across the way. His cravat was askew and his coat, a bit wrinkled, but the slight curl of his hair and the calm in his eyes made any flaws in his appearance almost imperceptible. Ordinarily, I took no notice of the grown men milling about the street, and I would not have given this man a second thought if not for the bouquet of wildflowers he had clasped in his left hand. None of them were as elegant as what the flower vendor had, and by the way the man's shoulders sagged, I could tell that he realized this. Nonetheless, his flowers were beautiful. Yellows, blues, and pale pinks dotted his bouquet, but it was missing something, I could tell. The lilies were blooming. Maman's white lilies. Maman's white lilies that I was not permitted to pick…

"Monsieur!" I called out to him before my mind could quite make the leap my mouth was making. My feet joined in the leaping, leaving my right mind still in the dust somewhere as I crossed the street, lily in hand and, smiling, held it out to him. He was leaning against the wall of a crumbling building-I suppose all the buildings were crumbling or drooping in those days-with his eyes cast to the ground.

"Monsieur?" I repeated tentatively, my mind finally arriving at the same place as my feet. I took a step back, about to drop the flower and run, but that was when his gaze met mine.

"Bonjour," he said simply. His voice was soft, but with an underlying strength. I could hear it in but a word, though I may not have realized it at the time. "Is that for me?" he asked, noticing the flower.

I nodded.

"Why, thank you. But whatever for, mademoiselle?"

"For your bouquet," I whispered.

He knelt to my level, smiling. "It did need something, didn't it?"

"Is it for a lady?" I asked, looking sheepishly into his murky brown eyes.

He blushed. "Yes, it's for a beautiful most beautiful lady I have ever seen," he whispered. "And you have helped me, mademoiselle. More than you know. What is your name?"

"Marguerite," I told him.

"Ah, then this is for you, Marguerite." He handed me a daisy from his bouquet as he stood up. "My name is Jean Prouvaire, but my friends call me Jehan." He smiled. He kissed my hand, and I wouldn't say I was smitten, for he was over twice my age, and at ten I did not consider romance except in fairy tales, but I would say that my heart was warmed. I would say that smiles came easier in his presence, and I would say that that day marked the beginning of a friendship I will never forget.


End file.
